


Make the Yuletide Gay

by Randomcat1832



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Marius, Because I would die for Cosette actually, Christmas Party, Christmas party hookup, First Kiss, Gavroche and his host of twelve or so gay dads, Get Together, Grantaire gets drunk, It's not really part of the fic I just wanted to let you know, Look I WENT there okay, M/M, Mild Mariette, Mutual Pining, None of the amis are straight, That's breaking the rules, Today on "clueless ace tries to write romance", alcohol consumption, dumb gays, go big or go home, kissing under the mistletoe, this should surprise no one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomcat1832/pseuds/Randomcat1832
Summary: "The Amis are their own close-knit group of socialist chaos, but it’s only around Enjolras that he becomes anxious that he doesn’t totally belong. Grantaire has never really seen the point in being in deliberate denial over a crush, but he’s pretty sure his feelings toward Enjolras have skyrocketed beyond crush territory into straight-up worship.Well. Notstraightworship, he thinks, and then laughs to himself."When Enjolras is coerced into hosting a Christmas party, Grantaire had his doubts about coming. As far as he's concerned, parties are about having fun and getting drunk and playing Cards Against Humanity. And there's nothing fun about spending an entire party pining after the boy who's probably too good for him, and being mocked by the mistletoe that Cosette justhadto add to the decorations. And if he catches Enjolras staring back, he's surely just imagining things.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	Make the Yuletide Gay

**Author's Note:**

> Me? A hoe for canon era? Writing modern au? It’s more likely than you think. 
> 
> With extra special thanks to everyone in the WWC for rattling off all the tropes that are necessary for a Christmas party hook-up fic. 
> 
> This fic contains **swearing** and **alcohol consumption**

Maybe he shouldn’t have come.

Grantaire stands outside the apartment building, hopping from one foot to the other to keep the chill out of his bones, staring up at the third-floor window that he’s pretty sure is Enjolras’s apartment. There’s a lot of activity going on inside, and Christmas music carrying through an open window, but that could be true for half the units in the building.

Grantaire kicks at a pile of snow, adjusting his grip on the bottle of rum he’s brought with him. (There’s a box of Oreos, too, just so Enjolras has no grounds to claim that Grantaire brought nothing but booze.) He’s going to freeze his nipples off in this cold. He should just make a decision; either head inside or turn tail and head back to the bus stop and return to his dorm room.

The bus stop. Where he’ll probably have to wait another half hour in the ass-biting cold for the next bus to get here.

Still, he hesitates. It’s not that Grantaire thinks Enjolras won’t want him there. He’s gotten over that particular insecurity. It’s more so that he’s worried he’s going to make an idiot of himself in front of Enjolras. Which is outrageous, because Grantaire has a lot of concerns, but embarrassing himself in front of people has never been one of them. Of course, Enjolras isn’t _people_.

He could try not to make too much of himself, maybe linger around Courf and Marius or something. But that would be boring, and besides, even if he goes with boring for a change, he’s even more afraid that Enjolras might not notice he’s there at all.

He’s seriously considering turning around and dying of hypothermia in the bus shelter when Marius jogs up, nearly slipping on a patch of ice. He waves at Grantaire with both hands, and even from halfway down the block Grantaire can make out his enormous grin.

“Hi! Oh, good, you’re here, you can be late with me.”

Grantaire should be annoyed, but he’s mostly just grateful Marius has made a decision for him. “Are we late?” he asks.

“Yep. By twenty minutes or something. It’s okay, though, if you’re with me it won’t look as bad for either of us.”

Marius has finally caught up with him, and Grantaire can see the Christmas crackers and grocery store mince pies he’s packed into his messenger bag. “I don’t know if you can be _late_ to a party.”

“It’s _Enjolras’s_ party.”

“But Courf’s idea,” Grantaire counters. It’s easier to be confident when he only has to worry about other people’s insecurities. But being around Marius does a lot to lift his spirits, too. “Isn’t your girlfriend coming?” he asks, as they start making their way to the entrance.

“She said she’d just meet me there,” he says, miserably. “She lives in the building next door, so. And she said he could probably do some help decorating for the party. I think Jehan came early and helped, too.”

That isn’t surprising, from what Grantaire has heard of Cosette. He’s eager at the chance to meet her—Marius won’t shut up about her, and Grantaire has been impatient to end the suspense. It’s been a full five months since they started dating—five months since they met—and Marius’s eyes still light up when he talks about her. It’s adorable.

They don’t say much until they get to Enjolras’s apartment. The door is unlocked, and Grantaire opens it to the sight of his friends from the university Socialists Society crammed into Enjolras’s small two-room apartment.

Cosette, Jehan and (hopefully) Enjolras have done an impressive job decorating. Grantaire feels like he’s just walked into a movie set, Hollywood’s idea of what a high school party is supposed to look like. The kitchen counter and dining table are piled with food and drinks, plastic garlands are strung along the cupboards, a tiny Christmas tree is tucked into a corner of the living room by the sofa, and mistletoe is tied to the ceiling fan. There’s Christmas music playing from an iPod connected to the speaker set over by the TV.

Grantaire and Marius kick their boots off at the door and shove their coats into the overstuffed hall closet, then slowly make their way into the party. Predictably, everyone else has already arrived, and they all shout out greetings from their respective corners but make no move to come over, so Grantaire and Marius start searching for a free space on the counter or table for the food. Marius finds a spot for his mince pies and Grantaire balances the Oreos over the rim of a bowl of pretzels.

He’s still looking for somewhere to put the rum down when a girl comes running up to Marius, throwing her arms around his neck and then leaning up to plant a quick kiss on his lips. “Hi! You’re here!” She pulls away and takes Grantaire in. The girl is pretty, dressed in black checkered pants and a red turtleneck, dirty blonde hair pulled back into a messy braid, but her smile is sweet and toothy and genuine when she beams up at Grantaire as if they’ve been best friends since childhood.

Grantaire points at her. “Cosette, right? I’m R.”

“Yes, hi!” He’s a little surprised when Cosette leaps forward to hug him, and he almost drops the rum before he figures out what he’s supposed to do with his arms and hugs back. It’s a fast hug, though, and Cosette pulls away, still beaming. “Marius has told me so much about you. All of you guys, actually. It’s so great to finally meet you.” She talks in the same rapid-fire way that Marius does sometimes, as if she really is so excited the words are trip over each other in their scramble to get past her mouth, and she keeps pressing her lips together as if trying to contain her smile. Then she notices the rum that Grantaire still has cradled awkwardly in his arms. “Oh, my god, I almost made you drop that, didn’t I? Here! Do you want me to help you find a place to put it?”

“Uh… that’s okay. I’ll manage.”

“You sure? I don’t mind.”

Grantaire shrugs. “The surest.”

“Okay, then.” Cosette takes Marius’s arm and beams up at him. “I’ve been hanging out with your friends for ages, they’re all so nice.”

“Oh! Yeah, they—” Marius is cut off as Enjolras swings over, dressed in skinny jeans and an oversized hoodie with a Christmas tree on it. Grantaire had no idea Enjolras owned any kind of Christmas sweater; he must have borrowed it from Courf. His blond curls are more mussed than usual, showing clear signs of having played host to his fingers, and when he leans forward against the kitchen island, his eyebrows raised and eyes widening slightly in the way they always do when he’s about to deliver a lecture, _fuck_ if Grantaire doesn’t go weak at the knees at the sight of him. It’s a relief when he speaks up to chastise them so Grantaire has something else to think about.

“R. Marius.” Enjolras looks between them and points. “You’re late.”

“Told you,” says Marius at once. 

“This is a _party_ , not a club meeting.” Grantaire comes around to Enjolras’s side of the counter and slings an arm around his shoulder. “The structure of the 24-hour day becomes irrelevant… something, something.”

“First, we’re not a club.” Enjolras pulls away, though not forcefully. “We’re a society organised around a political goal. Second, when I say the party starts at six, I mean six. And third… ” He takes a step back, appraising Grantaire with scrutiny. “R, are you so drunk already you’re struggling to string your sentences together?”

“Try saying that five times fast.”

“Be harder if you were drunk.” Enjolras clicks his tongue, but he’s smirking slightly. And this—banter, being insufferable—is more Grantaire’s comfort zone, but seeing Enjolras smile, even throw some quips back, has left him feeling so thoroughly pleased with himself that Grantaire can’t help but break into an idiotic grin. 

“Anyway,” Cosette claps her hands together. “R, can I get you anything?”

Grantaire points at Enjolras. “Isn’t that his job? He’s the host.”

“Cosette has, um.” Enjolras clears his throat. “Kindly volunteered to take over hosting duties—”

“—because this one is still finishing a report,” Cosette finishes. “Not engaging in the partying spirit at _all_. I don’t mind, though! I like helping out. It’s sort of a love language for me.” She hesitates, peeks up at Marius, then looks slyly back at Grantaire. “Also, I kind of like telling people what to eat and drink and stuff. Not _ordering_. Just a not-entirely-gentle nudge.” Somehow, she’s entangled her body with Marius’s during her speech, and he’s stroking her hair as if he’s forgotten the rest of them are even there, because of course he is. Then again, the way Grantaire gets around Enjolras, he might not be in a position to blame him.

Something about Enjolras’s speech seems to have caught Marius’s attention, though. He looks up and knits his brow together. “Is that the report for Intro to Law? That was due… last week.” He sounds genuinely concerned, too, as if Enjolras has just announced that his cat is missing. “Did you get an extension?”

“No.” Infuriatingly, Enjolras runs a hand through his hair again and sighs loudly. “I just got caught up with… club shit, I guess. Courf is helping me with it, kind of, but—Marius, would you mind…?”

Grantaire watches as Enjolras tugs Marius toward a corner of the living room that has been cordoned off with tinsel without a second word to Grantaire. And it’s probably stupid, the sinking feeling he gets in his chest as he watches Enjolras sit down in the armchair while Marius perches himself on the armrest, leaning over to see Enjolras’s laptop. It doesn’t take him long to place: loneliness. The overwhelming sense of being unwanted. It’s _so_ overwhelming, in fact, it would almost be tempting to boil it down to jealousy, but that’s the most bullshit excuse for hiding from his real feelings that Grantaire has ever come up with. He’s never gotten a hint of romantic affection between Enjolras and any of their friends. The Amis are their own close-knit group of socialist chaos, but it’s only around Enjolras that he becomes anxious that he doesn’t totally belong. Grantaire has never really seen the point in being in deliberate denial over a crush, but he’s pretty sure his feelings toward Enjolras have skyrocketed beyond crush territory into straight-up worship.

Well. Not _straight_ worship, he thinks, and then laughs to himself.

“You okay?” Grantaire jumps—physically jumps—when Cosette sidles up beside him, making her laugh.

“Sure, why not.”

Cosette looks at him tiredly, and Grantaire figured she’d be the sort of person to see past his bullshit, even though she’s known him for a grand total of five minutes. “I could get you something to drink,” she offers. “Mulled wine?”

Grantaire jerks his head in a nod and Cosette goes to fetch a Styrofoam cup. She glances at him over her shoulder as she starts ladling the drink out of a Crock Pot. “Do you want me to force you into some kind of social interaction, or do you need a minute? Because I think they’re playing Cards Against Humanity over there, and I was getting to know some of the others.” Pause. “Everyone is just so _nice_.”

“Uh. Maybe give me a minute.” He takes a long sip of his mulled wine. “This is good, who brought it?”

“Um. Me?” Cosette tugs at the hem of her sweater, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, thanks. I didn’t actually make it in a Crock Pot, I promise. Just transferred it there to keep it warm. It’s too strong, though.”

Grantaire takes another exaggerated sip. “Tastes perfect to me. And trust me, I’m an expert on these things.”

“Oh.” Cosette presses her lips together, then her mouth tugs into a smile. “Well… thanks. Again. Come socialise with your friends sometime soon, though, okay?” She serves herself some mulled wine, then backs away, doing finger guns.

Once she’s gone, Grantaire leans back against the counter, releasing a whoosh of air. He glances over at Enjolras again. Courf has joined him and Marius, and all of them are crowded around Enjolras’s laptop, leafing through a coffee table strewn in papers and open textbooks. Grantaire knocks back more mulled wine, drains the cup, then serves himself more. He tries to reason with himself. All this business of thinking he’s unwanted is completely unfounded. Enjolras needs help from Marius and Courf because they’re in his Intro to Law class and because, contrary to appearances, Enjolras is a terrible student with terrible time management.

He just needs to clear his head. Find out somewhere to put this rum and then actually socialise with his friends. It’s ridiculous to start sulking about his friends ignoring him when he’s the one failing to socialise.

Grantaire sets his mulled wine aside and looks over to the snacks table. There’s really only one thing to do with rum at a Christmas party. Grantaire snags a measuring cup from the cupboard, then he swings over to the snacks table, pours out some rum, tips it into the eggnog, and leaves the bottle next to the eggnog pitcher so people take the hint. Then he heads over to join the ongoing game of Cards Against Humanity with Bahorel, Joly, Combeferre, and Gavroche. And maybe Grantaire and his friends shouldn’t be letting a little kid play Cards Against Humanity—a kid they’re _responsible_ for—but then, maybe they shouldn’t have invited a little kid to a university Christmas party where alcohol is being served, either, so any ethical boundaries have already been crossed.

None of them are exactly sure how an eleven-year-old got wind of a university socialist club’s meeting schedule. But Gavroche, little shit that he is, is probably more enthusiastic about the “cause,” as Enjolras calls it, than the rest of them combined. And he’s smart, too, smarter than he really has any right to be. And it’s Gavroche who treats Grantaire’s arrival with the most enthusiasm, exclaiming “R!” and scrambling down from his throne on the gaming chair to sit next to him on the floor.

“Hey, pup.” Grantaire sets his mulled wine down in front of him—then slides it out of reach of Gavroche’s already-reaching fingers. A new kind of grin spreads across his face; being around the kid never fails to cheer him up. “You winning?”

“I’m second,” says Gavroche on a pout. “Bahorel is really good.”

“Well, you’re about to be demoted to third place,” Grantaire retorts as Combeferre deals him his cards. “Because I always win at this game, and I’m going to _flatten_ you.”

“He’s right, Gav,” Combeferre says knowingly at the boy’s incredulous expression. “This should be fun.”

They play a few rounds, and at some point Marius leaves Enjolras to join in. It’s strange playing Cards Against Humanity without Courf; usually he and Grantaire try to compete with each other to see who can come up with the stupidest horny jokes. Still, Grantaire is well on his way toward first place when Enjolras swings over. He stoops to lean over Grantaire’s shoulder.

“R,” he says in a low voice, and Grantaire can feel his breath, warm and tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He realises the others are all watching him closely. Joly and Bahorel nudge each other. “Did you spike the eggnog?”

“Yep,” Grantaire turns to grin up at him, but Enjolras looks annoyed. And even though Enjolras looks annoyed a lot of the time, with him especially, Grantaire’s smile falters.

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose, seemingly tired. “Look. I know you’re here to get drunk, but there’s plenty of alcoholic drinks here already. It would have been nice to have _something_ non-alcoholic besides _tap water_ at the party.”

“Enjyyyy. It’s a Christmas party. We’re all here to—”

“Except that some of us might like to stay reasonably sober, and also the little _kid_ should have something to drink that isn’t alcoholic.”

“I don’t mind!” Gavroche pipes up.

“Okay, first of all, no. Just.” Enjolras runs a hand down his face as Gavroche pouts spectacularly. “Just—don’t, okay, R?”

“Sorry,” mumbles Grantaire, but Enjolras just waves a hand vaguely and walks away. As soon as he’s gone, the others scoot closer, wearing matching sympathetic expressions. Gavroche leans against his shoulder and Grantaire ruffles the kid’s messy hair before he utters, “Shit.”

“R, it’s not a—” begins Combeferre.

“I know, I know.” He just wants Enjolras to see him as something other that the walking stereotype of a useless drunk. “Just—whatever.”

“You could apologise,” Marius offers, but Grantaire shakes his head.

“Nah. It won’t change that I messed up. Plus I already said sorry.”

“Oh. Because I usually just apologise when I don’t know what else to do,” says Marius with a shrug.

“We know, Marius,” Bahorel says gently.

“Or,” Combeferre leans forward to rest his chin on one fist, “you could just tell Enjolras you like him.”

Grantaire spits out the mulled wine he’s just knocked back—an honest-to-God spit take. “What?!” Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pauses, considers. There’s no point in trying to hide from his friends, especially Combeferre. Again, Grantaire is pragmatic about these things. “Um, okay. Still not telling him.”

“Why not? If nothing else, it’ll distract him. Besides, he likes you back.”

So maybe Combeferre _isn’t_ right about everything. Realistically, Grantaire knows Enjolras must like him, but for God’s sake, as a _friend_. “No.”

“Well.” Combeferre crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. “Then I don’t know how to help you.”

“All good. I think I’m just gonna keep drinking. Give me a sec.” Grantaire pushes himself off the floor, snatches up the empty cup of mulled wine before Gavroche can steal the last drops, then heads over to the snacks table to pour himself the eggnog he spiked.

He has a good view of Enjolras from over here. He takes his time.

He watches as Courf and Enjolras a while longer. There’s no way of telling how Enjolras is doing on his paper, but at some point Courf shoves Enjolras off the armchair and toward the snack table. Grantaire panics as Enjolras approaches. He proceeds to try and make it seem as though he’s been staring at anything but at him until he ends up staring so hard at the tablecloth that his eyes burn. Enjolras comes up behind him and he jumps, nearly knocking over the eggnog.

“Oh, sorry.” Enjolras takes a step back and nearly trips over his own ankles. “Didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. You didn’t. I was just—”

Enjolras’s brows crease together in that way of his, the way that makes his mouth come out in just a bit of a pout, and it’s enough to make Grantaire feel inclined to grab the table for support. “Yeah, about that. Were you… by any chance… staring at me back there?”

“No!” says Grantaire, too loud and too sudden. “No, I was staring at this, uh—” He searches desperately for something in the room that could possibly have snagged his attention—“fruitcake.” 

_Fuck_.

“Oh.” Enjolras’s frown deepens. “Because Courf thought you were, and he sent me over here and said I should go find out.”

“Um.” Grantaire can feel his throat close up in panic, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest. He’s sure he must be blushing tremendously, and prays that it can be chalked up to just how much he’s had to drink so far. He thinks he can feel his tongue going loose and thick; a good sign for once. “No. Nope, I was. Definitely staring at nothing else in the room but this fruitcake.” He slams a hand down before the offending fruitcake, making Enjolras jump. “Because I was just so—so _focused_ , you know? On thinking, like. Who the hell likes—who brings a, a _fruitcake_ to a party?”

“I got the fruitcake.”

 _Oh,_ fuck. Grantaire pauses. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Enjolras picks up a plastic fork and prods the fruitcake. It’s suspiciously tough. “It’s okay. I mean, I know nobody actual likes it.” He frowns. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

“ _Oh._ Well, _I_ like—” Grantaire meets Enjolras’s eyes and quickly turns his attention back to the fruitcake. “I mean, I think there’s some kind of rule you have to bring a shitty fruitcake to a Christmas party. Red and green.”

“I got it from the grocery store.”

“Incredible.”

Enjolras smiles then, really smiles, maybe for the first time in a while. It’s an easy smile that makes his eyes crinkle up, shine a little brighter, and his shoulders relax. He has a dimple in his left cheek that Grantaire’s never noticed before, and the next thing he knows he’s staring at Enjolras’s lips.

The room seems to shrink then, the space warping until all that’s left is him and Enjolras, stood facing each other by a pitcher of spiked eggnog and a grocery store fruitcake. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” fades into silence until all Grantaire can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat in his throat, and Enjolras’s lips are pulled into that soft smile that smooths his sharp edges and his head is canted to one side and for a second, for one maddening, dizzying, heavenly second, Grantaire is convinced Enjolras must be staring at his lips too.

Cheers and encouraging yells erupt around them, and Grantaire jumps to the sight of Cosette dragging Marius into the centre of the room, stopping right under the mistletoe that’s been attached to the ceiling fan. She’s laughing and blushing, and Marius is stuck somewhere between mortification and flustered delight as Cosette stands on her toes to loop her arms around his neck, leans up, and kisses him. Grantaire watches as his friend freezes for a moment before cupping her face in his hands and kissing her back, long and gentle.

The room erupts into cheers and applause, and after recovering for a moment, Grantaire joins in too. It’s a long moment before Cosette and Marius break away, a little breathless, and everyone cheers again as Cosette buries her face in her boyfriend’s chest to hide her laugh. She pulls away again after a moment, then ducks her head and runs over to the snack table. She leans over Grantaire to grab a cookie.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” she says, flushed and breathless.

“It was—I mean, hey, you’re supposed to do that at a Christmas party, aren’t you?” Grantaire runs a hand through his hair and grins back. “Anyway, you guys are the power couple.”

“Oh! Well, thanks. But, um…” She leans in closer, her flustered smile shifting into a conspiratorial grin. “Well. Your turn.” She takes a large bite out of her Christmas cookie, then saunters off to join some of the others before Grantaire even has a chance to protest.

Grantaire groans to himself, then turns around, but Enjolras is gone. He’s returning to his study corner along with Marius, rolling his eyes as Courf pulls Marius into a headlock and noogies him, laughing.

Grantaire grabs for the eggnog and pours himself too large a cup that he knocks back much too quickly. Whatever. It’s not as if kissing Enjolras was seriously going to happen. That’s just stupid wishful thinking.

The night passes by in a blur after that. He slides in and out of conversations with friends that he forgets the details of moments later. Grantaire has another cup of mulled wine at some point, and he’s pretty sure he has another one after that. His third drink? His fourth? It’s hard to tell just how much he’s really had; Cosette’s wine is delicious but, it soon becomes apparent, definitely too strong. He knows he’s drinking in part because he’s feeling sorry for himself, but that’s the key factor— _in part_.

And so Grantaire rides the party out only half-aware of what’s going on, and he’s not entirely sure how or when it happens, but at some point he realises he’s sitting upside down on Enjolras’s sofa flicking unpopped popcorn kernels at the ceiling and Courf is saying goodbye and that he and Enjolras are the last ones there.

“Hey.” The sofa springs creak as Enjolras drops down next to him.

“Hey.” Grantaire tries and fails to pull himself up. He reaches out a hand. “Hey. Help me up, won’t you?”

There’s a grumble before Enjolras’s hand closes around Grantaire’s, and one surprisingly muscular arm yanks him up. Grantaire adjusts his position on the sofa, lying with his legs dangling over the armrest and one arm clinging to the back of the sofa for support. There’s an awkward moment of silence and Grantaire drums his fingers for a minute before rolling his head back to look at Enjolras. “I should probably go, huh. Go… go home.” He tries to push himself up, but Enjolras eases him back down.

“No, wait. Maybe you should, I mean. Would you like to stay the night? You were pretty unsteady on your feet back there. I don’t want you to slip on the ice and break your neck or something.” He coughs, hesitates, tugs at his earlobe, then says, “You could sleep on the couch if you want.”

If Grantaire were a little closer to sober, he might have had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Or maybe not; he rarely keeps his mouth shut and it’s even rarer he can be bothered to think about what he’s about to say. Then again, he’s not completely sober most of the time either. Right now, he smirks up at Enjolras and nudges his knee with the top of his head. “What’s wrong, Enjy? Don’t want to share your bed?”

Enjolras is—predictably—oblivious. He shrugs. “Well, it’s a pretty small bed. Just a twin size. And don’t call me Enjy.”

Grantaire nudges his knee again. “Come onn. We could keep each other warm on this cold December night.”

“My apartment has heating, R— _oh_.” His eyes widen with realisation and he blushes furiously. Enjolras is rarely at a loss for words, but right now he sounds like Marius being teased about his girlfriend. “Well, we—I mean, I don’t—that is, not that—”

And it’s in that moment, through the haze induced by too much mulled wine and a boy who might as well be a god for the effect he has, that Grantaire has the good sense to be mortified. He sits up so fast he nearly falls off the sofa. “The couch is fine!” he bursts out, and scrambles to force his body into a more sensible seating position. “Yeah, I—don’t worry about it, I’m really fine on the couch. Just teasing, you know?” he adds, doing finger guns.

Enjolras is looking at him oddly, and it’s dawning on Grantaire that he’s not very good at reading Enjolras’s facial expressions. He’s usually in the throes of some passionate speech about destroying capitalism, and the rest of the time he’s irritated, whether it’s with Marius or Grantaire. He doesn’t say anything, though, leaving Grantaire scrambling to fill up the silence.

“I mean, look at this. It’s a great couch. I’d kill a man to have this couch in my dorm room. Where’d you get it, anyway?”

“Ikea?” says Enjolras, like a question.

“Ikea. Of course. Should’ve guessed. Never doubt the Swedish gods of furniture.” Grantaire claps his hands together, and stands up a little too quickly. He sways, grabs the armrest of the godsent Swedish sofa, and steadies himself. “Well, since I’m here anyway, why don’t I. Help you clean up or something. You know, since you live here and there was just… a party.”

“Oh. Um, okay.” Enjolras is still frowning as he stands up, slapping his hands against his knees. “Well, most of the Christmas stuff is technically borrowed from Cosette, and she said she’d come by tomorrow to pick it up, so that can stay there, but the rest… yeah. I wouldn’t mind. Thank you.”

Cleaning turns out to be a low-effort task. Their club parties aren’t really that messy, so it’s mostly just dumping food containers and plastic cups in the garbage, wiping down the counters, that sort of thing. And since the decorations don’t need to come down until tomorrow when Cosette stops by, they’re finished in half an hour, leaning against the kitchen island and passing the last of the Skittles back and forth. It’s nice and relaxing, without the chatter of their friends or Cosette’s looping festive playlist to distract them, and the way Enjolras leans against the counter, he’s captured Grantaire’s full attention.

“Hey.” Grantaire clears his throat. “So, just wanted to say. Sorry again. About the eggnog.”

“Oh, that. I’d forgotten about that.” Enjolras glances over at the dining table, where the pitcher used to be. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. I just—well, Gavroche was here, you know?” He drags a hand down his face. “I mean. Maybe it doesn’t. We did invite an eleven-year-old over to our party when we knew there was going to be alcohol, and it’s my place, so. Maybe I’m a little at fault, too.”

Grantaire chuffs softly. “Maybe. We’re great dads, huh? All of us, I mean.”

“Oh, the best,” Enjolras agrees, and he smiles again, leaving Grantaire at a loss for words.

“Okay,” he says at last, softly. “Thanks. For letting—for inviting me to stay over.”

“Yeah. ’course.” Enjolras’s eye flicker up, then dart quickly down. Suddenly he is looking everywhere but at Grantaire. He sifts through the Skittles dish, probably looking for a red one. “I mean, you’re just. Well, like I said, you’re not completely steady on your feet, and it’s pretty icy out there.”

“Courf was pretty drunk, too,” Grantaire wagers. “Though I guess—”

“Well, Combeferre didn’t have that much and he was going to drive him home.” Enjolras sets down the Skittles bowl. “A lot of the guys, actually. But, um. No. That’s not why…” His eyes trail up again and meet Grantaire’s, and this time they don’t pull away. “I just mean. Well, I wanted you to stay.” He smiles again, softly.

There’s a prolonged moment of silence as they both stare at each other, and Grantaire can feel a knot in his throat.

Later, Grantaire won’t remember exactly how he came to reach out a hand, and brush fingertips with Enjolras. He won’t remember how he happened to lean in, or how Enjolras happened to step closer. He will remember, vaguely, how he seized Enjolras’s hands, and the feeling of Enjolras squeezing back, an unspoken confirmation. He will remember, when cajoled, how he panicked, and dragged Enjolras into the center of the room to stand under the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling fan.

What he will remember is this. He will remember looping his arms around the back of Enjolras’s neck and the feeling of Enjolras’s arms pulling him closer by the waist. He will remember how the world seemed to melt away as he brushed his lips against Enjolras’s, a gentle touch at first, hesitant and disbelieving, then pressing back more firmly. He will remember running his hands through Enjolras’s blond locks, will remember Enjolras grasping the fabric of his sweater. He will remember the way his body seemed to sing with the electricity running up his arms and legs. He will remember pulling away slightly, breathless as Enjolras stroked his cheek, murmuring his name—Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras—against his lips.

And he will remember, too, what came after.

After what feels like far too long, Grantaire breaks away, flushed and exhilarated. He leans his forehead against Enjolras’s. “Wow,” he says on a laugh.

“Wow,” Enjolras agrees.

They stand like that for a moment longer. Enjolras reaches a hand out to brush a lock of hair out of Grantaire’s face, making both of them laugh softly. Grantaire leans in to kiss him again at the same moment Enjolras begins to pull them in the direction of the sofa, and it goes like that, holding onto each other, laughing around each other’s lips as they stagger toward the sofa, crash into the coffee table, and finally collapse onto the sofa cushions side by side.

“So what happens now?” Enjolras asks softly, linking his fingers with Grantaire’s.

Grantaire rolls over on the sofa to nestle close to his side. Enjolras is hardly the first person he’s kissed or been on a date with, and in his experience, it’s only ever gone one way after that. But it doesn’t seem fitting right now. This is different. Enjolras is different. “Now… I don’t know.” He squeezes Enjolras’s hand. “The night is young and all that.”

“Not so young. You’re going to have a hangover in the morning.”

“Oh, but the morning is hours away.” Grantaire rolls his head to the side and grins wide. “Come on, we can do something you want.”

“Really?” Enjolras looks amused. Enjolras! Amused! “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, you know.” Grantaire taps his fingers against Enjolras’s forearm as if touching the keys of a piano. “Something radical and leftist. Make a guillotine. Build a barricade at the mall. Guillotine the CEO.”

“That’s sweet of you. Sounds right up my alley. But…” Enjolras stays Grantaire’s hand and lifts it to his mouth, touching his lips to Grantaire’s knuckles. “Maybe tomorrow. I think—I mean, I don’t usually say this. But this is enough for me, for right now. Don’t you think?”

This would be enough for Grantaire for an eternity. A part of him is afraid that if they leave this sofa, if he drops Enjolras’s hand, some spell will be broken, and he’ll be back to staring at him from across the room, longing and alone. But then Enjolras squeezes his hand, bringing him back to reality. It’s a fleeting little thing, but it’s a reminder too. That this _is_ his reality now, and that there will be time for moments like this one, somewhere in the midst of all the guillotine building and mall barricading. Grantaire leans into the crook of his arm. He can see the mistletoe from this angle, and he smiles, squeezes back. “Yeah. This is enough for me too.”

**FIN.**


End file.
